


when the sunlight dies

by crypticjeggings



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, Drugs, Kidnapping, Stockholm Syndrome, no non-con in general, the stockholm syndrome isnt romantic or sexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:59:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crypticjeggings/pseuds/crypticjeggings
Summary: It's been 1 month, 2 weeks, 5 days, 13 hours, and 29 minutes since Party Poison was captured.





	when the sunlight dies

3 days, 4 hours, and 52 minutes since Party Poison was captured.

3 days, 4 hours, and 52 minutes since the Killjoys had seen him.

3 days, 4 hours, and 48 minutes since Kobra Kid collapsed on the side of the road, screaming and choking as tears burned their way down his cheek.

3 days, 2 hours, and 54 minutes since Jet-Star had forced them to head back to the station for the night, despite the guilt searing through his own heart.

2 days, 8 hours, and 27 minutes since Fun Ghoul nearly shot himself in the foot on accident during target practice, mind too far off in the distance to focus on safety and where he was aiming his gun.

1 day, 3 hours, and 15 minutes since Kobra Kid swore at the rest of them, shouting about how he _‘just wanted his fucking brother back’_ and how _‘no one seemed to care’_.

7 hours and 23 minutes since they’d all slumped together at a diner’s table, eyes hazy and minds numb from hours upon hours of stress and worry.

2 hours and 34 minutes since all- no, not all, just the three- killjoys fell asleep, unable to cope with the exhaustion.

28 minutes since Party Poison woke up.

3 days, 4 hours, and 52 minutes since he’s felt anything at all.

* * *

The first thing he notices- well no, not notice exactly, but his senses recognize it- is a woman, standing in front of him. Her dark hair is cut over her shoulders, not a strand out of place. She’s dressed in all white, the room is all white, everything is all white. And there’s a smile on her face as well. It’s not friendly or pleasant, but it’s not _bad_.

Of course, these thoughts barely pass through his mind. Everything is wrong, but everything is alright, everything is just… there. He doesn’t think, doesn’t feel, can’t breathe but he _is_ breathing. He doesn’t know.

“Welcome to Better Living Industries, Oh-One,” says the woman, her voice ringing out through the sterile and eerily silent room. Oh-One. 01. Is that his name? It must be, but it doesn’t sound right. His eyebrows furrow, and she must’ve noticed this because she smiles and continues. “Do not be alarmed. Anything you’re feeling is completely normal, and will be done away with soon. Peace can be yours, if you just let us help.”

The woman’s closer now. When did she step forward? He struggles to put together a solid thought, feels like he’s fighting for the right just to think.

Her words finally settle in, and he just blinks and stares ahead. Everything he’s feeling… What _is_ he feeling? But she says it will go away, that must mean it’ll be alright. He smiles, so small that he doesn’t even notice it himself. But then he realizes, does he even want whatever he’s feeling to go away? If it does, what will he be left with?

The woman must’ve noticed his slip in thoughts because she frowns and suddenly her eyes are ablaze. The fire dies away a few moments later, and she sucks in a breath. “Please, 01, just breathe. Everything will be alright,” she whispers, running a hand over his arm, stroking comfortingly.

So he does. He doesn’t really have anything else to do but let his eyes shut and the darkness come back, wrapping its softened arms around him.

* * *

It’s been 4 days, 2 hours, and 51 minutes since the grey overtook him.

* * *

Something is touching his head.

He squirms uncomfortably at first, unaccustomed to the feeling of whatever it is running along his scalp and combing through his tangled mess of hair.

He still doesn’t open his eyes, preferring the darkness over anything else, but his breath begins to quicken.

“Shh, shh,” comes a hushed voice. It’s the woman again, and somehow it does manage to calm him and he stops fidgeting in his chair. “I’m just washing your hair.”

It’s then that he realizes the lukewarm substance running down his neck and temple is water, heated just enough to be comfortable but not quite enough for it to be considered hot. The things running against his head are fingers working product and suds into his hair. His shoulders relax, he hadn’t even realized how tense they were .

“Thank you for staying calm,” comes the voice again. “I’m almost done.”

It’s not like he was going to move anyways. Not like he could move, like he wanted to move.

He hasn’t washed his hair properly in so long, not since… He can’t remember. He frowns and opens his eyes, blinking as he adjusts to the light. What can’t he remember? It feels like it’s something important, like it’s something that his very life depends on.

She must’ve sensed that he was growing uneasy, because the woman places a firm hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, 01.”

So he does.

* * *

It’s been 4 days, 11 hours, and 8 minutes since the grey overtook him.

* * *

He has dreams now.

He’s tossing and turning, eyes screwed shut. He’s strapped against the table so he can’t really move, but it doesn’t stop his thrashing. When he wakes up, he might notice the bruises starting to form on his wrists, but he’s too lost in the storms and violence of his vision to realize how much he’s hurting himself.

A whine escapes as he watches a terrible scene, one where a faceless man shouts and sinks into the sand. The whine crescendos into a scream, and then he’s being forcefully awoken. His eyes snap open and stare up and ahead, sweat soaks his back and causes the hair to stick to his forehead in clumps.

“01, please stop moving,” comes the voice that he’s so used to now, that calms him. It’s a sign that he’s in safe hands, that someone is taking care of him. “Here, here, we’ll help you.” The restraints around his hands and legs loosen, and someone is helping push him into a sitting position. The woman is standing behind him, and several men in white suits and masks surround them him. His breath catches as he realizes there are new people, unfamiliar people, but something tells him that they don’t want to hurt him and if he just lets them work things will be fine. They help him swing his legs over the side of the table and eventually work him into a standing position. His arms are draped over the shoulders of two men, and the woman is walking alongside them.

They help him into a hallway and into another room, a bathroom, the same one he must’ve been in last time he was awake. They help him sit down on a chair, legs trembling, and the woman turns on the water.

The sound of the tap is hypnotic, and breaks through the haze of everything. She takes a towel from a shelf and runs it under the stream, then wrings it out. She comes over, her heels clacking on the tile, and starts to wipe the sweat away from his forehead. He gets the shirt worked off his body and he shivers at the feeling of overheated skin touching the cold air.

He ducks his head down and it takes him too long to understand that what’s running down his cheeks are tears, and that the shaking in his body are sobs. He’s crying and he doesn’t know why or how to stop.

“01.”

He whimpers and forces his eyes to open so he can look up at her stern face. It seems so uncaring now, the opposite of comforting like it had been just minutes before.

“01, you need to calm down.”

Calm down, calm down, calm down, calm down. He hated that term, he hated the way it was echoed back to him over and over, like some sick remedy to his plight. For the first time in over half a week, he feels something burning in his soul and-

She runs a hand over his cheek and he sighs into it, eyes fluttering shut again and heartbeat slowing. He will be safe if he just trusts them and let them guide him through this.

He doesn’t even know what he’s going through.

They eventually help him back onto his feet and back into the first room. The room’s swaying has eased, but that doesn’t help the dizziness in his head. They lay him back down and he falls asleep without even realizing it.

* * *

It has been 5 days, 3 hours, and 58 minutes since he has smiled.

* * *

Next time he wakes up, they take him to a park. Granted, it is still artificial and quiet, but the change of scenery is something he welcomes.

There’s not an actual breeze inside the facilities, but the leaves rustle all the same with the air movement that comes from a vent on the southern wall. He sits there, body limp like he can’t find the strength to hold himself up.

The woman is still there, in another part of the room. She’s standing at a desk behind a glass wall, not really paying attention to him as she works. She must’ve noticed him watching her because she smiles that cruel smile of hers in the middle of typing something up. He feels bad, like he shouldn’t be watching her work.

The trees are larger than he’s seen in years. When did he last see a tree? A memory tugs at the edges of his vision but he chooses to ignore it, opting instead to trace every leaf and branch of the ones close to him. The white lighting tints the forestry a harsh shade of green, and a leaf detaches itself from a branch and flutters down to his side.

He picks it up with shaking hands and smooths it over, calloused fingers running over the waxy underside and examining the veins. Then he does something without thinking; he tears it.

There is barely a sound as it rips, and he’s just left with two jagged parts of a whole. Just like him, just like…

The men are back, and they help him back to his feet. They’re walking him back to the room and he _growls_ at them all of a sudden. Then there’s a pain in his jaw and he realizes that one of them has slapped him with the back of their hand.

He stays quiet for the rest of the walk.

* * *

It’s been 6 days, 15 hours, and 16 minutes since he’s spoken.

* * *

He wakes up screaming.

Red is burning through his mind, flashes of people crying and of gunshots blasting. By the time he realizes what triggered it, it’s too late. He’s sobbing now.

They moved him while he was sleeping. The place is unfamiliar, scary, and his arms are bound behind his back and twisting in pain. He’s vaguely aware of the people standing around him, and they just wait until he’s started to calm down before they make any sort of move.

“01, it is time for your retraining.”

It’s her voice and he wants to calm down, _knows_ he should calm down, but that fear is still bubbling in his chest.

“Look up at me, 01.” He complies, and realizes she’s standing in front of a screen. Her face is somehow even colder now, thin lips pressed downward into a frown. “We’ve let you adjust to life in the facilities, but you’re not just here to fade in and out of consciousness. We need something from you.”

He swallows. Strands of hair have fallen in his face, crimson obscuring his view. She raises a hand and taps on the screen, so that the image displayed changes. He sees a picture of a man staring back at him, eyes covered with opaque sunglasses and a handkerchief wrapped around his face. Hair, worn and tattered from years under the sun is sloppily tied back. The picture is low-quality too, and feels so foreign but somehow like he should know this.

“You had a life before all of this, 01,” she starts. “You led a rebellion in the desert against us, Better Living Industries, known under the code name of ‘Party Poison’. And before that, you had yet another life.” The screen flickers and changes again to reveal a man with brown hair combed back and smiling. It’s then that he realizes that he’s looking at _himself_. He thrashes in his restraints.

“What happened, 01?” She says, arms folded across her chest. “You were the perfect model citizen; you did everything we asked for here at BL/ind. You had a family, friends, a secure lifestyle. You were on target to retire at 53. All of the goodness that was promised to you, that _we_ promised to you, was yours for the taking.” She places a hand on her hip and sighs. “But you decided to leave Battery City. You fled into the desert where you took up the ridiculous mission of taking us down.”

He continues to struggle, chest heaving. He can remember now; he knows why he’d left. He can still feel that passion in his gut. He didn’t want this life where everything was monotonous and he was just being controlled and being told by them. The tears where back, but they were angry this time. They were grief over the lifestyle he’d just lost. He would never let them win, he could never…

“01,” the woman murmurs, stepping close to him. “You can have that back. That is what we’re here for. We can teach you how to thrive in the city. You’ll get the life you were promised as a child, where we watch over you and keep you safe. Sure, you’ll have to work for it and sacrifice some of the freedom you knew, but it will be worth it.”

He spits in her face.

The woman’s features twist and become angry. She doesn’t speak and he stares at her with wide eyes, not knowing why he’d done that. Her hand is on his shoulder, gripping and squeezing hard enough to bruise. But after several moments of tension her grip eases and the strange calm he associates with her returns to her face.

“Just a habit left over from the past,” she says, voice cool. “I can’t blame you, but I can promise our help. Can you do that? Can you let us help?”

The fury and emotions he’d felt just moments before are starting to ebb away, and he is just left with a confusion. Everything is jumbled up inside him, several different emotions fighting for dominance.

But he finds himself nodding, his mind unable to create a coherent thought. He can just feel in his soul that this is wrong, that he shouldn’t be so compliant.

“Good, good. Thank you for being cooperative, 01.”

The urge to fight is back; the urge to spit out a ‘ _fuck you_ ’ lingered. He doesn’t act on it, though, limbs too exhausted to move. Everything is exhausting.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” She asks again, like she wants to test his resolve. Like she wants to see if he really is ready to become one of them, all grey and living with no real purpose.

He knew if he just nods again, he can fall asleep. He can finally drift off. But something in him tells him that he can’t give up that easily. Ignoring the trembling of his arms, he shakes his head firmly.

Fingers lace into his hair, just like they had when she washed it, but this time the hand pulls up and yanks his head back, causing him to cry out.

“01, I asked you a question.” Her fake smile has given way to the harsh glare she’s perfected over years of inflicting misery on others. And for the first time in days, he rasps out a word. Just one word, so small, yet so defiant.

“ _No._ ”

She shoves him back and his head hits the back of the chair, a loud thud resounding through the room. His vision swims.

“I’m afraid that this talk has brought back the unhelpful spirit that got you here in the first place.” She straightens up, strangely composed for a woman who had just nearly cracked his head open, to address the men who worked under her. “It seems that we’ll need to administer more medication in order to break him successfully.” He frowns at the use of the word ‘break’. “I wanted him to cooperate on his own, but that doesn’t seem to be possible in his current state.”

He wasn’t quite sure when he drifted back into the darkened sleep he was starting to get to know so well.

* * *

It’s been 8 days, 4 hours, and 53 minutes since ~~Party Poison~~ he was free.

* * *

She’s not in the room.

That’s the first thing he notices when he wakes up. Instantly, he starts struggling. Why isn’t she here?

The woman had become a constant, a permanent part of the room. Her presence was calming, and now she’s nowhere to be seen.

He doesn’t speak, but just whimpers. He’s afraid. He hasn’t been truly afraid in a long time, but he’d gained a reliance on her being with him. He likes the fact that he can see her face, that it’s not hidden behind a mask with the Better Living Industries logo on it. He finds comfort in the way that she keeps her composure, but not in the frighteningly silent and faceless way that the guards do.

He just wants to sleep, but he’s too unnerved. The only people in the room are the two soldiers standing at the door, but they don’t react to his quiet thrashing and grunts. Here he was, reduced to a pitiful mess, just because something was out of the ordinary.

He’s not sure where this last thought comes from, but it makes him stop. Why was he doing this? Because ordinary is good, he remembers. A routine, a constant, an unchanging world are all good things.

After too long of him not being able to fall back asleep, the woman walks back through the doors. She sees him and doesn’t smile.

“You were gaining too much of a reliance on me, 01. I am just here to oversee your retraining and then you won’t need me anymore. We need to get you out of the habit of expecting to have me around, alright?”

He doesn’t say anything.

They continue this routine for several more days. They wake him up, and she’s not in the room. He gradually becomes more okay with this. BL/ind is here to protect him, even when he’s with others he’s in good hands. It will be alright.

He’s been telling himself that a lot lately, to the point where he even starts to believe it.

* * *

It has been 11 days, 17 hours, and 3 minutes since he crashed. 

* * *

_The aftermath is secondary._

He wakes up and harsh lights are in his eyes, and he’s told this over and over for what feels like hours.

_Keep smiling._

He can’t smile when he’s too weak to even lift his head.

_The aftermath is secondary._

It repeats, or maybe that’s just his imagination.

_Building a better you._

That’s all they’re doing. They’re making him better. They’re shaping something great out of him, something that Better Living Industries can use in their society. He wants that, doesn’t he?

_The aftermath is secondary._

These stupid thoughts, ringing in his brain. He can barely think, yet it’s always those repeating over and over again. Images that he hates, visions that he wishes could just go away, and those mantras falling from the lips of dozens of people. Every time he wakes up, he is told that. Every time he eats. Every time he needs anything. He just wants to make them shut up, wants to make them-

_The aftermath is secondary._

He wants to make them-

_The aftermath is secondary._

Wants to make them what?

_The aftermath is secondary._

* * *

It has been 17 days, 3 hours, and 24 minutes since he wasn’t greeted with this pale light every time he woke up.

* * *

All of his limbs ache.

Not that he notices.

He just stares ahead at the wall as hands comb through his hair for the second time this week. He thinks. He’s not really that good at keeping track of time anymore.

The touch is gentle but not in a particularly comforting way. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile. He just sits there in the bathtub, only in the briefs someone put on him at some point. He’s not sure.

The porcelain is cool against his skin and so is the once-lukewarm water that has now cooled and pooled around his legs. He’s not exactly sure what they’re doing with his hair, but they’re not shampooing it.

Minutes drag on this way. He doesn’t stir the whole time. Eventually they tilt his head back so that they can run warm water through his hair, a welcome change from the chill that surrounds him. He shuts his eyes so nothing gets in them, and shivers against the temperature change.

Another masked man comes in the room, and along with the one who had been doing his hair, helps him up. He drapes an arm over each of their shoulders and they bring him to stand in front of a mirror.

It’s the first time he’s seen his reflection since…

He looks deathly. His cheeks are hollow from not eating much, and his arms are bony. His eyes look glassy and dark and he realizes what they’d been doing with his hair. Where there was once scarlet adorning and framing his face, pale strands now fall in their place. They’ve bleached his hair, a fact that should’ve startled him.

He just blinks, his bored expression never changing.

* * *

 

It’s been 17 days, 3 hours, 12 minutes since…

Since what?

* * *

He’s finally allowed to move again. On his own.

He wasn’t sure if he would have been able to operate his limbs in the first place, but he’s grateful when the ties are finally released and he doesn’t have anyone controlling his movements. Granted, he’s weak and sore after weeks of being strapped down to a table or chair. He has to go through a physical training and therapy to regain control of himself completely.

He also takes pills every day. He’s told they’re meant to keep him focused and prepared.

The woman calls him to her office space and properly introduces herself. She shakes his hand and instructs him to sit down. He cooperates. He’ll do what any higher-up tells him these days. He’s proud to work for Better Living Industries, proud that they find him someone worthy of their time and training.

She sits herself in her own seat, hands resting on her crossed legs.

“01, you are one of the most brilliantly trained individuals we have,” she started, eyes judging his reaction. When he only shifts his gaze, she continues. “It because of this that we have decided that we will use you as a S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W unit.”

He tilts his head. She stands and motions for him to get up as well.

When he’s up, she reaches into her desk and produces a mask. The shape causes something to tug at his subconscious, but he ignores it like he always does.

“This,” she murmurs, “Is yours to wear while on missions.” He finally gets to hold it, and runs his hands over it hesitantly. It’s a standard mask, save for the half-spheres placed on it in various locations. It’s been painted over in various shades of grey. It’s so comfortable in his hands.

“As for you name,” she says, “I don’t think that 01 is an appropriate name for someone who has been reabsorbed back into society. You deserve something better, don’t you think?”

He looks up, eyes wide. A name? He’s come to recognize 01 as the only thing used for him, the only sort of identity he was given to start his life with.

“How about,” she picks up a tablet and turns it on, then starts scanning through a list, “Jeremiah Proxer?”

Jeremiah Proxer. A name. _His_ name. He nods, mind stuffed with cotton and numb.

“Alright then, Jeremiah,” she says, setting the tablet back down and smiling at him. “Are you ready for your first mission?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god this is up! i've only been writing it for... 2 days? but i'm already exhausted
> 
> thanks to my beta and my friends who helped answer some questions about the danger days universe and brainstorm ideas. also, if i missed any tags, please let me know!
> 
> if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or kudos! ty for reading <3


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